


I Won't Say I Need You

by N110011



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Bruises, Engagement, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oh man I really blew it there did I, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Q (James Bond) is a Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-01-25 15:26:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21358459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/N110011/pseuds/N110011
Summary: "A question lingering in the cold breeze of that night, a question yet unanswered, yet unspoken. A dead giveaway, the faint outline of a ring box inside his tuxedo jacket, casting a small shadow beneath the flickering streetlight."Q gets abducted just before James can propose.Abduction aftermath.The H/C nobody asked for but everyone deserved.(Fits into the "Icarus" timeline)
Relationships: James Bond & Q, James Bond/Q, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 132





	1. Chapter 1

  
  
“Vauxhall. Vauxhall.”, the bus announcement echoed faintly through the night. But it wasn’t stars that illuminated the backdrop of a familiar city that night.  
It wasn’t the streetlights, the distant buzzing of Soho’s neon signs or the backlights of cabs passing in the last glimpse of the evening sun.  
  
A pair of deep blue eyes beaming brighter than all the city lights combined, that night.  
  
A question lingering in the cold breeze of that night, a question yet unanswered, yet unspoken. A dead giveaway, the faint outline of a ring box inside his tuxedo jacket, casting a small shadow beneath the flickering streetlight on Gower Street. A nervous single shuffle of weight, heavy Italian leather shoe to identical Italian leather shoe, ensued.  
Q could tell from a distance, from nervous anticipation and heartbeats racing thoughts when he moved past the open cab door, that it was going to be an evening of promises, maybe banter, maybe alcohol. Maybe stirred, but likely shaken.  
  
But their hopeful eyes wouldn’t meet just yet.  
  
He looked down, at his feet, the uneven laces, a stray cat hair on the seam of his left leg, when a sudden noise disturbed the night. A second cab had pulled up behind the previous one. A pair of boots scraped across the pavement, fast. Certain.  
It took him less than a second to realize, as he fidgeted for the door handle, but was immediately stopped by a pair of hands on his upper arm and neck, slamming his face onto the car roof.  
  
Thud.  
  
An audible noise woke the agent from his daydream, bursting through a nervous thought of What If, that had plagued him for a while now, hovering above his head like a cloud, day by day, mission after mission, with a familiar voice in his ear, that had kept the rain at bay.  
  


Calm. Slowing breaths drowning the adrenaline, and a sinking heaviness in his chest, the quartermaster caught his thoughts.

His eyes darting into James’ direction for a split second, before being pulled back into the taxi from below.  
Four. Four sets of hands, he couldn’t fight.  
Four. Four sets of feet, he knew the agent wouldn’t mind stepping on.  
One rule. One rule, he couldn’t break as a civilian.  
For crown and country.  
  
And their eyes wouldn’t meet.  
Not for a while.  
  


  
***

  
  
The cold humming of a sharp neon light cut through the damp smell of what felt like day four or five.  
Water dripping in the distance, quietly seething dampness through the barre room.  
  
Somewhere around day three or four, he couldn’t quite tell the difference, something had snapped. A cable, broken and spewing sparks, in the back of his mind, burning holes through memories and igniting madness.  
  
The first he had hallucinated was a voice, tone deep and vibrating, asking for an address, years ago, when he still had a name, a home and a doorbell. An older brothers’ fiancé, dirty blonde hair and a hint of a limp. A doctor, his shirt lined with war and a familiar scent.  
  
“Just give it up, they will hurt you, and I’ll have issues trying to stitch you back together, like this bloody idiot of a brother of yours.”  
  
Q chuckled at his voice, knowing he would never know of him, not as a brother-in-law, not as anyone. Casually uninvited, casually wiped from the face of the earth, in an instant, upon his own request. With scars to tell stories that never were and trauma that never had an origin, with analogies of machine parts and programs.  
  
“Just as stubborn as your brother.”  
  
Suit, tie, walking stick, a few pounds to tight, a few habits too strict. His scolding words made him shiver in the cold, more than the torture, more than the bruises, as that familiar smell lingered among the memories of days past.

“You are here because you know. I know who you are protecting and we aren’t asking for him.”  
  
Q chuckled at the thought of it, of all of it. A mix-up. If they had really caught the wrong dishevelled-looking fiancé-to-be. If he had just taken a different cab that night, if he had been late to their date by just a minute, if James had looked up just a split second earlier, if he didn’t get dressed around the cats that evening.  
  
It earned him a hit to the head, just brushing his cheek, but bursting several blood vessels in his ear, leaving a throbbing ache.  
  
But the smile didn’t leave his face, just yet.  
He had found a tactic around day two, a line of code, scrambled across a different one, and a snarky remark of his 00 agent, hidden among the letters and numbers, carefully embedded between the false sets of security measures he was going to hand to them.  
It would cost his life, he knew, but he could keep going that way, pushing it away a little further, a little more sincere, a little bit longer.  
  
  
_Five days_, he thought to himself, _five days is the limit_.  
Search and rescue missions never went on beyond a week, and given his physical status on a steady decline, he had a few hours left, before hitting rock bottom.  
  


There had been simulations, there had been tests, ideas, practise, but never quite something like _this_.  
  
Day six came round eventually, carrying a familiar scent and another burning set of sparks, sizzling away further on his sanity, while his mind kept wandering to happier days, or any days, for that matter.  
  
Days before he had disappeared, days with his old name and his old life, that he had once been so proud of, strung up by heartache and TNT, a race through time zones and scars that could tell stories on their own, of an empty promise on foreign grounds.  
  
A blurred name brushing past his hot, throbbing ear, sending him into vertigo, as his older brothers’ voice hissed from behind “… you know he’s right. Give him that small victory, he doesn’t have many of them.”  
  
  
Again, he couldn’t help to smile to himself, all by himself, in the dark his eyelids carried heavily but welcoming. And he dozed off into a hopeless slumber.

  
  
***

  
  
Messy, brown hair, a hint of gel and a pair of glasses reflecting the flickering streetlight back at him, they break and shatter across the road, as his partners head had hit the roof of the cab, just a split second ago.  
  
No fight, no scream, no nothing.  
Only cracked lenses, cracked promises, a question unspoken, remaining unanswered.  
And a cloud, shifting across the moon, piloting an oncoming storm.  
  
That night, he swore to himself, he would protect his partner, promise or not, stepping into a nearby alley, finger on a pulsing phone call.  
  
Retirement would have to wait, he thought to himself, and took off into the night, on a stolen motorbike, the ring box pressed against his side in the pocket of his black tuxedo.  
  
This was not the end.


	2. Chapter 2

Sleep, numb limbs and heavy chin, hitting against bruised collarbones.  
  
He couldn’t tell the time of day, or how many days had passed when he woke again, hours later, neon light buzzing. Water dripping in the distance, slower now, or slower altogether.  
  
“You’re going to get yourself killed.”, he could hear his brother say, with that monotone yet melodic voice of an unfinished thought, “Unless you come up with something better.”  
  
His footsteps circled Q’s chairs behind his heavy eyelids, sinking shut, slowly. Exhaustion, starvation. He couldn’t recall the last time his capturers had given him a sip of water, from an unlabelled bottle, no cap.  
  
“You can hold on, I know it.”  
  
The smell of a familiar cologne cut through the dark, and the light returned to his view, brighter than before, blinding.  
A set of eyes resting on him, he could almost feel the agents’ breath on his skin.

  
The same damp room stared back at him, empty and cold, damp and lonely, burying hope as he recounted the times he had been visited by his capturers, if he could count them as days, seven had passed.

  
  
_Missing in action._   
  


He struggled against his restraints, rope digging into bruised wrists, tears dwelling into his blurring vision, this time there was no way out. Not by himself. Not like this. No opportunities.  
  
Darkness and exhaustion wrapped around him once more, swallowing Q whole. Q.  
_Who am I anyway_, he thought to himself, half-asleep, _I died a couple years ago, in that incident. _

In his dream, he revisited the night on James’ couch, when he had finally opened up to him. About La Sombra, about his past, the jobs he had been forced into, surviving across state-lines, steadily followed by his old identity and finally escaping back to England.  
His file laid open on the agents’ coffee table one night, untouched, undisturbed. Pictures, reports, a collage of the boy who never was and his burial in the ashes of James’ kitchen sink.  
  
He remembered the relief, unsteadiness, the remnants of anxiety in the air, when he finally realized.  
Scars meant to fade and silence filling for words that weren’t heard by anyone ever again. A name that went up in flames, and a life that belonged to another man, in the safe distance of anonymity.  
  
“Q. That’s who you are. And your home is here.”, were the warm words that had carried him into a comatose slumber.  
  
As shots echoed through the complex, he could hear but not call out towards. His body heavy, warmed by memories and the vague hallucination of heavy Italian leather shoes on concrete.  
  
_Better late than never_, he heard a voice mumble in a distant memory. He couldn’t tell who it belonged to, but it didn’t matter anymore.  
  


***

Days passed vastly different, once he was on home grounds again. Medical bay, hospital bed, a few doors down from his office, and a familiar cup placed on his bedside table, steaming with the warm scent of Earl Grey, milk and sugar.  
  
Time had resumed its normal run, and the earth had turned without him in Q branch. With some minor hiccups - of course.  
He was gone for seven days and was reported missing in action, when James returned him to MI6, making sure he wasn’t followed by another shadow this time round.  
  
Battered and bruised, dehydrated and on the brink of death, it took the quartermaster several days to return to full conscious. Five days until he broke silence. Four days until he demanded his laptop. Five and a half days until he snuck out of medical to return to his lab. Five three quarter days until James’ carried his exhausted partner back to medical. Seven days until he was discharged and sent home to recover.

  
***

  
  
Shaking fingers, yellow bruising remnants along his wrists.  
A cold cup of tea, undisturbed and screwdrivers scattered across the floor.  
  
A quiet sigh accompanied by classic music to cover the clattering noises of computer parts being reassembled in the cloaking dark past four AM. James had found his way from the bedroom into their shared living room, where Q had spread his recent project across the hardwood floor.  
  
_He must be doing this on purpose_, James thought, shooting a glimpse into the dark office space that had doubled as Q’s bedroom when he had first moved in.  
Q hadn’t returned to it, since he had been discharged. Not once.  
James recognized the set of screwdrivers, a battered and scratched box he had kept under the kitchen sink, a previous tenant had left it, _just in case_.  
  


The agent had long given up fighting against the quartermasters’ insomnia, and settled for having a room at the end of the hallway to keep his antics – he would sometimes burst into hissing and imitating voices for parts he couldn’t fix, though would do so only in the safety of their own home – to a contained space.

Though he hadn’t heard his voice much, since he had been recovered from enemy lines.  
  
“Q.”, James whispered, leaning up against the doorframe, watching as his partners’ fingers slipped past the grip and an audible scratch came from the hardware part, yet again.  
No outburst. No voices. No hissing. Not a word.  
  
“I’ll be with you shortly, go back to bed.”, he mumbled, quietly, under his breath, yet audible enough for the agent.  
  
“You’re on bedrest.”, James countered sternly.  
  
“I have work to do.”, Q shot back, weakly, accompanied by a yawn.  
  
James remembered the times he had seen him overwork himself before, when he forgot to eat, forgot to drink, forgot to go home every other day. Usually, it lasted two days, three at most, until he had cracked the problem, or was too exhausted to make it back to his own place and started occupying a couch at the agent’s flat. For convenience, of course.  
It had been two weeks since the quartermasters discharge, and not a night had passed that he didn’t exhaust himself until the early morning hours, with some mindless project, like a new line of code, a new prototype pitch, or a repair in their home.  
  
James shuffled his slippers across the floor and sunk into the couch behind his partner, reaching for a glass bottle and two glasses. The familiar sound of glass against glass made Q turn his head.  
  
James frowned and poured himself a glass of whiskey. Bourbon. No ice.  
  
“Are you on call, or do you want to join me?”, he whispered.

Q looked down on his bruised and scarred hands and sighed. He knew he kept going for nothing. He knew his latest project was another preoccupation for his mind. He just didn’t want to go back.  
  
“One shot, bartender.”, he joked weakly and set down his screwdriver.  
  
He didn’t need to tell James what he was thinking. They had shared this sentiment before and he know his file, up and down. They shared bruises and scars, they shared regrets and grief. Very little of it mattered at half past four in the morning, when the sun was about to rise in the distance and fresher pains needed time to mend.  
  
They shared a glass and a set of sighs, before exhaustion took over and Q’s heavy head tumbled into the agents’ lap.  
  
“Bed?”, James’ asked, ready for their settling new routine of daytime sleep, taking it at face value, for however long he would have to.  
  
But Q didn’t move, didn’t settle himself on his unsteady legs, ready to make it to their bedroom that night. He froze still and quiet, shivering.  
  
“Q?”, James reached out to him, uncertain and awake in shock, “I’m here.”  
  
A hick. A cry, no, a wail.  
A brief echo of his partners voice, rushing through the room, eaten by the narrowing darkness, before settling into a set of quieter sobs.  
  
“Am sorry…”, he mumbled faintly, “…_I’m really sorry._”


	3. Chapter 3

Exhaustion.

Loneliness.

Tired fingers, aching.

  
There was space for “It’s not your fault, it’s mine.”, another sentiment, another touch to Q’s shoulder, another shiver.  
James left uncertain if his words could reach Q in the dark, wrapping his partners body into a blanket, hoping for the best.  
  
“Five days.”, he cried, into the agents’ lap, “What took you so long?”  
  
Cold. Unforgiving. Honest. Words spoken as he did were what James had feared the most. Beyond the damage Q had taken, beyond what he could have possibly anticipated to hear that night.  
And he didn’t have an answer. Not that he could assume Q’s outburst to demand anything but.  
  
Silence. Warmth drained from the room, escaping with the last remnants of the night, sobering him up immediately.  
  
“Q, I…”, he began, but was quickly interrupted.  
  
“I can’t go back. In there. I… the dark…”, the quartermasters voice broke and left sharp edges ** cutting while the night filled him with fear. Fear of loss. Fear of forgetting. Fear of not waking up to his partners face. Fear of staying in the dark.  
  
_Times had been worse_, he tried reminding himself, stiffening his gaze and steadying his breaths, _but no one problem is like the other_.  
  
James had never been a man of many words, but he was a man of action, and he knew he had to do something. Anything.  
Whilst he was still debating whether it was a good idea or not – _wasn’t it all relative anyway_ – he lifted himself off of the couch and slid down to the ground, to be on his partners eye level.  
  
“Can I hold you?”, he whispered, barely audible, waiting for a sign from Q’s direction, just to make sure the room didn’t swallow his gesture.  
  
Q nodded in reply.

  
  
Only seconds later, he buried his face in James’ shoulder, sobbing. The agent wasn’t entirely sure whether it was the right reaction or not, but he gave Q space to pull away, if he needed to do so. Anything but making him feel trapped in this situation.  
  
After a while it got quiet in the room, the crying subsided, and the coldness began to fade.  
  
“I thought I’d never see you again.”, he murmured with a fading voice.  
  
_I’m sorry, Q_, he wanted to say, _I kept you waiting for too long_, or, _I’ll always be here_, but nothing he could have said would have made a difference that night, nothing but…

_Was it the right time? _  
_Was there ever a right time?_   
  
His thoughts were racing each other for voice and reason, but in the end, James had made this decision already.   
Many years prior, asking for Q to stay.   
  
  
_In sickness and in health. _  
_In darkness and in light._

  
  
  


A pair of deep blue eyes beaming brighter than all the city lights combined, that night.  
A question lingering in the warm scent of a familiar cologne, fading into the early morning hours.  
  
Q’s expression stiffened, slightly, under tensing muscles, fainting aches and racing heartbeat, as James looked down, to meet his partners eyes.  
  
Hopeful eyes gazing into each others souls for a brief moment.  
A calloused hand grasping for a familiar shaped box in his jacket.  
And before he can say his first words, of a question unanswered, a question, burning brighter than his desire to protect his partner, Q interrupts him.  
With a quiet voice and tears of joy;  
  
” I thought you’d never ask.”

  
*** 

  
  
He stood by his side until Q had dozed off, barely muttering under his breath when James lifted him into their bed. The sun rising beyond their opaque curtains. A perfect morning, the storms at bay, and retirement written on blank pages, yet to come.  
  
When James asked him, if he wanted to keep the lights on in his office, or collect his screwdrivers and parts, Q had shook his head, in a sleepy manner and turned his back towards his fiancé under the covers.  
  
The room was silent for a moment, until he huffed a deep sigh.  
A promise, a request. A version of “I love you”, only James was able to understand.  
  
“I won’t say I need you.”  
  


  
  
***

  
  
“Vauxhall. Vauxhall.”, the bus announcement echoed faintly through the lingering fog.  
  
It wasn’t the late streetlights, the distant buzzing of Soho’s dying neon signs or the backlights of cabs passing in the last glimpse of the fading night.  
  
Recovery had faded into yet another word, pushed aside, in an endless stream of functions. Cleaning his conscious and cleaning the mess the past months had left Q branch in, a bony figure emerged from beyond the fog, pedalling across the bridge.  
  
And he could be reassured, with the silver lining spanning across his ring finger, that no matter what was about to come, be it in the far future, or just that night, he wouldn’t have to lose hope.  
After all, retired or not, his agent was just one code-call away.  
  
  
_“I won’t say I need you”_  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I didn't expect that I'd needed this in my life, but I sure as hell did.  
Thank you for your Kudos!


End file.
